Page 91 of Rage

“Is it true that you initially inquired about Samuel Yutzy at the country club?”

“I think so,” he snaps. “I asked about the landscaping work and the manager gave me his name. I told you all of that.”

“Are you a member of the club?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“Who was it who gave you Samuel’s name?”

“I told you,” he says irritably. “The manager.”

“Lance Wingate?”

“I believe that’s his name.”

“Are you friends?”

“I’d say we’re more acquaintances.”

He stares at me, unmoving, for the span of several heartbeats, then gets to his feet. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude or evasive, but I’ve invested enough time in this interview. If you have any additional questions, I suggest you call and make an appointment with my attorney.”

“Who is your attorney, by the way?” I ask.

“Brett Adamson,” he says. “He’s in the book.”

Taking my time, I get to my feet. “It’s interesting that you and Wilma Borntrager have the same attorney,” I say. “What are the odds?”

“This conversation is over.” He points to the door. “Out.”

I smile, but it feels nasty on my face. “If you think of anything else that you’d like to share, give me a call.”

Brooks rounds his desk, brushes past me, and pulls open the door. “Have a good day.”

I leave without thanking him.

“We’re going to have to do something about that fucking cop,” said the burly man as he picked up the crystal tumbler and swirled the amber liquid inside.

The words echoed uneasily between the two men. Like a declaration of war, or a call for surrender when no one wanted either.

It was nearly last call and, around them, the bar was hushed. They’d chosen a booth at the rear where the lighting was dim and there were no tables close enough for curious ears to eavesdrop.

The man in the sport coat picked up his beer and sipped. “The situation is too hot for anything rash.”

“I’m not suggesting anything rash.” The burly man wore blue jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A gold chain peeked out from the collar at his throat. Expensive watch was strapped to his wrist. “But she’s got to be dealt with. Now. Before things get too complicated.”

“I’m loath to point this out, but we wouldn’t be in this situation if your people hadn’t screwed things up in the first place.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that now.” Thoughtful and unperturbed, the burly man picked up his whiskey and sipped. “Listen to me. If we don’t stop her, she’s going to keep coming. Sooner or later, she’s going to find something and do some damage.”

“So we do a little housekeeping—”

“Too late for that.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We’ve tried warning her.” The burly man shrugged. “It didn’t work. I say we take it to the next level.”

The man in the sport coat stared at him. “And what level is that?”